Nipping out of the office to buy a lunch sandwich
or burger may be a fairly uneventful occurrence for a Westerner.
Not so if you happen to work in downtown Johannesburg.
Working in South Africa's largest city has
its own special problems. Sadly we're not allowed to use the
word "problems" anymore least we offend some gentle-hearted,
easily-crushed voice of Authority. So we are confined to filling
our dialogue or our writings with euphemisms of "issues"
and "challenges."
Our biggest one in the City of Gold is the litter
that floats around her streets; plastic bags hanging from overhead
power lines, lightening rods, flag poles and other protuberances.
Aluminum cans blocking up the street gutters and discarded polystyrene
trays blowing along the pavements.
Our second issue is the street vendors. Like water
flowing through a bone-dry river bed at the start of summer, just
after sun up, every week-day morning the vendor washes onto the
streets. Within minutes every flat surface from intersection to
intersection is covered with wares. Food, clothing, handbags and
all manner of commodities cramp the sidewalk and shuffle onto the
tarmac. Heavy concrete dustbins are wheeled onto the road to warn
passing traffic not to trespass in the shopping "aisles."
A truly robust entrepreneurial spirit but alas, the affliction of
the lunch sandwich pursuer.
Take a walk along the streets of Johannesburg while
you clutch your handbag to your bosom least someone tries to relieve
you of it & your bag not the other thing, and you'll find
yourself immersed in litter and "shops". Instead of looking
at the beautiful colonial architecture - buildings constructed from
finely crafted blocks of sandstone in the late 1800s - your eyes
remain glued to the sidewalk as a collage of rubbish and merchandise
stretches before you.
A "stroll" down Commissioner Street, one
of the busiest in Johannesburg, soon deteriorates into dancing a
jig as you flip this way and that, dodging cold drink cans and avoiding
someone's discarded half eaten lunch laying on the floor a
mere metre from an empty dull-grey municipal dustbin.
Who on earth, one might ask, would want to visit
the inner city of Jo'burg? Well the week-day commuters to the
city have to, it's where their jobs are and more importantly
it's where the hunt begins, between noon and two, to get a
spot of lunch.
Now lunch has two requirements; a hungry stomach
and the ability to launch yourself across the streets in search
of sustenance. Of course the lunch challenge has a solution; order
in. However if you work above tree height in a glass-encased, artificially-aired,
florescent-lit cube for eight hours a day then remaining there during
lunch break is never appealing no matter how sensible.
The lunch dilemma of going out or staying in only
occurs because of periodic bouts with memory loss. Breathe enough
recycled air and your brain atrophies preventing you from remembering
how it felt the last time you fetched food. Plus you allow imagination
to occasionally rule you. In your imagination, as the dinner bell
goes off in your head, along side the corresponding rumbling around
your midriff, images of soft fresh spring air, a bit of sunshine
and a tasty sandwich appear before you. Maybe a stroll down to the
Library Gardens and a thirty minute bake in the sun on a city bench?
Obviously you've confused Johannesburg with some British Midlands
city or Central Park.
In reality there is the soft spring air, loaded
with pollutants and the Library Gardens, brimming with vagrants.
Your mind, all rosy with spring luncheon pictures turns itself to
reality. The streets down below your tenth floor office will by
now be teeming with people, a large proportion of which are mobile
hawkers and sidewalk vendors. Your lunch seek-and-enjoy mission
will have to overcome a few obstacles. Eager for a little space
and sunshine you slip off your high heeled sandals, pull on short
socks then follow those with gum boots in stark white. You take
out twenty rand from your purse and stuff the note deep into your
trouser pocket. Next you remove your watch, wedding ring and earrings.
You lock them away with your handbag in your desk draw. Now you're
ready to go and fetch lunch. Already warning bells should be tinkling.
Loudly!
As you step onto the sidewalk you sniff the air
then shrink back against the wall to avoid being trampled by a jostling
group walking four abreast. The rich scent of "boerewors"
(Afrikaans for farmer's sausage) frying on a Cadac gas stove
wafts by from the sausage man a metre from your office block door.
He doesn't have a trading license but neither does the hot
dog man next to him. Half a paving block further, between a handbag
vendor and faux-Gucci belt salesman, an old woman sits on an up-turned
drum, her tongs adeptly turning mielies (corn on the cob) that roast
slowly on a grill over the fire she has made on the pavement. The
red-hot coals creating a burnt-black shape on the concrete while
nearby a tiny hill of maize skins grow larger and larger as her
daughter strips fresh corn for the fire.
You know your stomach is not made for pavement hygiene
so you ignore the sidewalk "cafes" and head towards that
establishment still holding a trading license and occasionally visited
by a Health Inspector.
Nimble footed is the only way to avoid rows of oranges,
pears and bananas that sit in brightly coloured plastic plates.
They cover the entire pavement in front of you save for a very narrow
single-file passage choked with swaying people trying to get to
the other side. An occasional misplaced step sends the oranges rolling
across the concrete earning a raised fist and a staccato rebuke
from the vendor. Not wishing a similar experience you sidle to the
end of the pavement, judge a gap between honking taxi's with
radio's booming, then leap onto the tar, scuttle around the
"fruit flats" before pouncing back onto safety.
Your lunch venue is now in sight. Just four more
bag vendors and a toiletries specialist to get past and you'll
reach the door. It's only a quarter past twelve so you know
you have plenty of time before the real trouble starts. At exactly
one ‘o clock cocky street barbers whip out their chairs, place
them squarely in the centre of the pavement, despite what's
underneath and start bawling their going rate. When shorn hair blows
into fruiterer's plate's tempers rise, voices lift and
the clash begins. Quickly knots of interested by-standers form,
blocking the way through completely.
You negotiate around a man hole, from which the
metal cover has long been stolen to sell for scrap then take an
extra long stride to miss a two year-old playing next to her three-year-old
sister while mother sells face cream and sweets from her upturned
cardboard box.
Finally you fall through the doors of "The
Sandwich Place." You take a window seat, breathe out slowly
then order a ham and cheese on rye. The sun blazes down on Commissioner
Street and soft spring air moves gently through the streets. However
you're far too preoccupied in plotting your route back. Perhaps
Short Street will be clear of barbers and clutter today?
Maybe tomorrow you'll order in.-
Annetta Holmes
